127. Scarlett
Scarlett
N o one said it, but the air was holding its breath.
Weapons were checked. Gear packed. Voices low.
Everyone moved like they knew this safe-house was about to become a memory.
I stood at the mirror, tying my hair back. Boots laced. Blade strapped to my thigh. Trace’s jacket slung over my shoulders, the collar smelling like him—like smoke and something ancient.
Sloane stepped into the doorway, holding something in her hand.
“I found this in your old box,” she said. “From the lake house.”
It was a black cord—braided, worn soft. I hadn’t seen it in years.
“You wore it every day that summer.”
I took it from her, wrapped it around my wrist, and pulled the knot tight.
“Thanks.”
She scanned me head to toe. “You ready?”
“No,” I said. “But I’m going anyway.”
Trace was waiting outside the room, leaning against the door frame. He looked at me like he already knew how this would end.
Alden passed by, grabbing a bag off the table in the hallway.
Zeke stood by the front door.
“This is one way,” he said.
I met his eyes. “Let’s go.”
He nodded back, and we walked out together, the door shutting like the end of something sacred.